Home Sweet Home
by actual benvolio
Summary: Soo.. Post Reichenbach. Slightly fluffy but slightly angsty. :3 Johnlock! and it's a oneshot. I'm bloody dreadful with summaries.


**Just some Johnlock :3**

**Yes, I have realized how little I write on here. Bleh. I also recently got addicted to Sherlock. Oh, the angst of Reichenbach. Dx**

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><p>John should have known something was up when he received the first text from Mycroft in months.<p>

_Go home. You'll thank me later. Or hate me forever; whatever happens. _-MH

_Why? -_JW

John sighed. He almost wanted to reply saying that he was home. Or at least you could _call _this a home if you squinted. He had been living with his sister Harry since that dreadful day when…

John Watson still couldn't think of what happened that day. Even months later, he still couldn't. He didn't feel alone with the scarf-wearing consulting detective. He couldn't even _think _the bloody name without bursting into noisy tears.

221b loomed in front of John's shivering form. The café next door was full as people as ever. The army doctor didn't hear their chatter, though. All he could hear was his blood pounding in his ears. Why did Mycroft need him here, now? What honestly could have happened?

"Mrs. Hudson!" he muttered. What if something had happened to the old woman who seemed like a grandmother to him? She couldn't be in too much trouble, since John had talked to her earlier that morning.

John pulled his rarely-used key out of his jumper and took a deep breath, preparing himself to open the door at the top of the stairs. Whatever was in there wouldn't be good. It would be dreadfully painful to face these memories all over again.

"Hello?" he called at the door. He couldn't bring himself to open it just yet. The key was sitting placidly in the lock, mocking him. As he expected, John didn't hear an answer. He didn't know if he even wanted to hear _his _voice again. John couldn't help still being mad at Him for jumping. For leaving him all alone again. Even right after the "incident", he wasn't that angry.

"Just open the bloody door," _His _voice echoed in John's head. It was almost unbearable to think of. But what if- he wasn't just hearing the voice in his head? Huffing to himself, John slowly pushed the door open, not knowing what to expect.

What he didn't expect was to see Sherlock sitting complacently in his old chair with his head in his hands. The forgotten violin was lying on his feet. Tears instantly sprang to John's eyes.

"You bloody git," he snarled. "You leave me thinking you were _dead _for months and months and you just… show up? How long had Mycroft known, anyways?"

Sherlock didn't look up. "I'm sorry, John. For everything," he muttered into his hands. "So. Very. Sorry."

John's voice was calm and measured, but he knew that Sherlock of all people would hear the anger underneath. "How can you say that? After all these months, all you have to say is _sorry_!"

Sherlock stood up, and John saw the pure grief in his pale blue eyes. His normally bony cheekbones stood out even more than John could remember, and he wasn't wearing his customary blue scarf.

"Damn it," John sighed, taking a step closer to Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were red, which suggested that he had been crying. Which suggested that he was a human with feelings. John punched him hard but making sure to hit where it wouldn't leave any permanent damage.

Sherlock stumbled back a step, but didn't look angry, or even upset. "I deserved that," he said. His usual baritone voice was cracked; another thing that suggested that he had been crying.

"Sherlock…" John finally let himself say the name. It felt foreign on his tongue after so many months of avoiding it. He flung his arms around the tall detective.

John could feel Sherlock's long arms snake around to hug him back tightly, and he sniffled. John finally felt okay for the first time since Sherlock "died."

Sherlock slowly pulled away and placed his gently on John's shoulders. There was something in his eyes that John couldn't name, and he tried not to fling himself at the tall man. Sherlock bent down painfully slowly, and John held his breath, waiting for their lips to touch.

Sherlock kissed him gently, carefully, as if he didn't want to hurt the army doctor. John closed his eyes and pulled Sherlock closer to him, deepening the kiss. He whimpered softly when Sherlock pulled away to look into his eyes again.

"I love you, John Hamish Watson," Sherlock whispered.

"I love you too, but," John said almost as quietly, "how did you do it? Fake your death, I mean?"

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><p><strong>Yay! Review? :3<strong>


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